Beautifully Horrible
by RyuFanatic
Summary: What happens if Alfred can't survive the Siberian winter? What happens when he suddenly runs into a half-demented, crazy Russian who only wants to rip him to shreds and drink his blood? *takes place after Winter War fanfic*
1. Alfred

A one-shot/two-shot/three-shot/four-shot story thing that I will DEFINITELY finish(?) n_n

This is basically a sequel to my **Winter War** one-shot.

Once again, its Alfred x Ivan. I just love those two so much~ *hearts galore*

Be warned: It's a lot of just ranting and thinking. Story's been stuck in my mind for awhile n_n

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**Beautifully Horrible**

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Alfred was sure he was going to die. Die all alone in a cursed winter, in the largest blizzard of snow he had ever seen in his entire life. He trudged through the mountains of frost and tried to breathe through his scarf or else his nose would probably end up an icicle. Alfred felt a sudden vehemence for his idiocy, for choosing to be deported to this madness Siberian place, where the cold of winter was something no one except the natives could ever put up with. What was he going to do…? He felt for certain that there was no way he could find a base in this barren wasteland of white, that there was no way he could even see an enemy if they decided to attack him. He was on _their_ terrain, after all, a place he had no heads or tails of.

Numbly, with as little movement as he could, Alfred drew his gun from his back and menacingly held it in front of him. He would try to be prepared, no matter what. Even if he just felt like closing his eyes and curling up in his 9 layers of coats, falling asleep in snow that looked invitingly soft. But of course, even if he was an idiot, the American at least knew that falling asleep in a blizzard- the coldest in the world, to him -wasn't the best idea to do. If he wanted to survive.

If he wished to live, to continue and bring back glory to his country and his parents.

…But did he want it?

Wasn't it such a hassle? To keep trying to live, to keep trying to breathe and force his weary legs onward, into the unknown? Wouldn't it be better to just give up and let some random Russian find him in the snow and… _hack his body to pieces and do some crazy, creepy Russian ritual around the campfire…?_

…

N. O.

Alfred shook his head, eyes wide and gripped his gun tighter. There was _no way _in hell he would ever allow those bastards to do _that_ to him.

He could only do one thing then- persevere. If there was one thing they taught him in the few months he'd been training in the army for this day, it was to keep going on. There was even a poem, or saying for it…

Alfred cocked his head to the gray, snowy sky, trying to put it to mind. Something about life being painful, but if you endure through it, beauty always comes after pain. Some Finland guy had said that, Alfred remembered…

Back at the army camp, they'd dragged back an almost dead Finnish sniper, and he'd laughed when the medics tried to patch him up. He'd whispered, "It's kinda too late for that," and was grinning, not even fazed by the fact that he was about to die. Alfred could even remember his shock at the Finnish's display of foolhardy bravo. And then, just before he breathed his last breath, the sniper had mumbled something about "a losing war" and "saving someone" and then he'd whispered that quote. Now Alfred could fully see all those words, flashing across his mind.

"_Life is so painful, but you must endure it for the beauty that comes after pain." _

Yeah, that was exactly what the Finnish man had said.

And then he had died.

Alfred froze, staring down at the steadily-getting-dirty snow, and clenched his fists. Thinking about the sniper had sobered his mood, and all he felt now was a coldness.

What was he doing here? Why was he even here? Why did it feel like enduring and enduring still wouldn't be enough to win, wouldn't been enough to see the 'beauty that comes after pain'?

He thought back to all the years he'd fought with his parents. About how they claimed he was just spoiled brat and never did anything and that he was better off just going away and not coming back. Now here he was- _away_. He saw the looks on their faces- slightly surprised and slightly relieved and even slightly sad -when he had gotten his drafting letter. Drafted into the army at age nineteen. He knew, even as he was forcing himself to walk on through the cursed snow, that they wouldn't give a shit if he died in the war, or if he made it back home alive with over a hundred trophies. They just wanted him out- never to come back and bother them again.

"Life is painful…" Alfred murmured.

Yeah, it was painful. Of that, the Finnish sniper had been right.

But what beauty would there be at the end of it? What beauty would there be if he made it through alive and returned home? Would his parents suddenly decide to love him, would they apologize to him and hug him, kiss him and tell him that they missed him…?

Would the world still spin on its axis, would the wars suddenly stop and everyone come to care and cherish one another? Would there be less hate, and bloodshed?

Would there be peace?

Alfred sighed and buried his chin back in his scarf.

_What a bunch of morbid thoughts. _

Maybe that was why he didn't like the cold, didn't like the snow. It made him think of depressing things he would never else in his right mind dwell on. Besides, even if that was the case, even if he wished for the end of it from the depths of his heart, there was no way that a 1000 year war would cease as suddenly as it had started.

_Yes, a 1000 year war… _He had been fighting for his life from the moment he was born. Thrust into a painful, hateful, and sorrow-filled world.

"And I have to keep walking on," Alfred said softly, dully. "Just because my will won't allow me to stop. Just because I'm curious…"

Curiosity. What would he really find at the end of his journey, at the end of a 1000 and one years of fighting?

Nothing?

…Or maybe beauty?

_Maybe endless, loving beauty. _

_//_

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Reviews/comments?:D


	2. Ivan

Yay Ivan's turn!~

Ily mah crazy Russian :D

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**Beautifully Horrible**

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He was freezing. The fresh blood had dried on his skin already and he was tempted to melt some snow and wash it off- it bothered him to no ends. But of course he couldn't. If he wasted even one breath melting snow into water, he could breathe in too much coldness and wind, and then he would die. And of that, the Russian man was certain he couldn't do. He had been saved by a stranger, a stranger who hated him and yet let him live at the same time, and he would not waste the second chance he had been blessed with.

Ivan shivered and wrapped his arms around his frail body. He was so, so hungry and tired. It would take another ten miles or so before he reached the closest town and who knew what would happen in that time period? The Russian sighed at his luck of stumbling through Finland and onto the lands of Siberia, a place he didn't know half as well as he did Moscow. Moscow, which was more of a city, which had people and civilization he could talk to, was somewhere he would have preferred being in. Now this frozen, barren place that stretched on and on with its vast emptiness? No, he did not like Siberia. The countryside, packed with mountains of snow and an almost echoing resonance, was so oddly chilling and foreboding. Even if he had been born and raised in this country, it wasn't home to him.

Heaving his rifle in his frozen hands, Ivan pushed himself on. Snow crunched beneath his feet and hunger clawed at his stomach, but he would keep walking. He had made it this far, after all.

And he thought of what he'd accomplished that day. He suddenly smiled at the memory, the smile sick and twisted. He had managed to single-handedly slaughter nineteen men. He didn't know which army they belonged to, didn't bother to care. They had looked like enemies and he had killed them.

But oh, that wasn't just it. Not even close.

(*dark, sadistic grin insert?*)

He hadn't even used his rifle; he saved that for the thick-boned ones. No, this was what he did:

He had gotten down to his hands and knees, with a short dagger, and sliced them all to pieces. He had carved them into pumpkin faces, had laughed when they realized that he had disarmed all their weapons, giggled when they tried to fight him back with their hand. Idiots. He was far superior to them in strength and even with eight attacking at once, he had managed to swirl and twirl his way through their blows, and landed his own blows a tenfold of theirs.

It had been beautiful… and horrible.

_Beautifully horrible. _

Ivan's eyes widened.

As he froze in his footsteps, rooted to the spot, he remembered the sweet smell of blood and decay, of standing there bathed in red, laughing and laughing at the faces of those fallen men…

He felt a lurch in his stomach. Before he could force it down, he leaned over and violently vomited into the dirt-red snow. The vomit was nothing, just water and bile, but it made him look away. Ivan stared at his hands with something close to horror, the twisted look in his eyes gone now, and was left only with a sick feeling in his chest.

The revelation of his actions burned a hole in his heart, in his conscience.

He couldn't believe he had laughed.

Laughed as he'd murdered those men, mocked them as they laid dying yet still trying to attack back. Laughed when he had ruthlessly killed innocent people.

He had never killed anyone until today. And he had savored it. He had _enjoyed_ it.

"_You must endure… for the beauty that comes after pain…"_

That was what his savior, that Finnish sniper, had said before he left, and earlier, as he'd finished throwing the men's bodies into a ditch, Ivan used it as an excuse for his actions.

_I must kill if I am to endure, to survive through this life_, he reasoned. _It is either me or them. _

But he didn't have to laugh, didn't have to enjoy it…

He hadn't even need to kill them- they had not spotted him first, did not open fire first.

He was the one who chose to attack them.

Ivan shivered again, and closed his eyes from the biting wind and the burning cold. He could only feel the heavy thumping of his heart, a heart that told him the secret he'd been avoiding, the truth that he didn't want to admit to. But no matter what, thinking about it only made him realize the finality of his actions.

"I attacked first," Ivan murmured. He tried to hold it back, but couldn't control the dark smile that expanded across his face. He couldn't control the violet eyes that dilated to a dull black, or the hungry rumbling of his empty stomach. "I killed them first."

_I killed them… and I enjoyed it. _

_//  
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_Reviews are beloved~

:D_  
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